



i -I 



' a; 





■% 


A t - 


•^■s* 


''-\\ A 


'jgfjV 


r 


'^^'^ 




cv 


^K'- 


^' /. 







. 'Cit- 



v'. ^- 



'-•■. ' f'' 







/ (L<^/-V^ V/ yO, /LC 



^^^C V 



/""'^^V 



> 



Henry S. Hagert 



MEMORIAL. 



POEMS AND VERSES, 



WITH 



SKETCH OF HIS LIFE. 



PBIVATELT PRINTED FOR HIS FRIENDS. 




PEBSS OF 

J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY. 

1886. 



"PS IJ it 
.H2 



Co}>yright, 188(>, by J. 15. Lh'I'inoott Company. 




OOISTTEISTTS. 



PAGE 

Memoir 5 

Poems : 

Introduction 23 

Columbus before the Queen 25 

The Sleep of the Dead 33 

Night 36 

Song of the Wind 38 

On a Kainy Day 41 

The Dying Girl 44 

To a Lake 46 

Pleasure and Pain 48 

Extract 50 

The Last of the Sachems 52 

Clouds at Sunset 54 

The "Wreck 56 

Tantallon Castle 58 

Moonlight 60 

The Unknown Beauty G2 

Ruins .......... 65 

The Eaid 67 



4 CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Sunset among the Alps ..... .70 

Greek War-Song .72 

The Warrior of the Desert 74 

The Boy and the Butterfly 75 

The Lady of the Veil 78 

Hours of Melancholy 80 

The Lost Ladie 82 

To Charles "West Thomson, accompanying Severiil Clus- 
ters of Grapes 88 

L'Arielle 90 

A Fragment . . .92 

Lines written in an Album to a Picture of " The Harle- 
quin" .98 

The Alpine Traveller 99 

Song 101 

A Eevery 103 

To Mary 108 

Lines to a Royal Mummj' . . . . . .110 

Lines written in a Copy of the " American Gallery of 

Art" ' 113 

The Luckless Lover to his Ladie . . . . .115 
" I Loved Thee in thy Spring-time's Blushing Hour" . 117 

"Fear Not; it is 1" 119 

Christmas Hymn ........ 120 

List of Subscribers to the Memorial .... 123 



MEMOIR. 



Heney Schell Hagert, the son of Jacob E. 
and Eliza Hagert, was born in Philadelphia, May 2, 
1826. After graduating at the Central High School in 
1842, he entered the office of the Hon. Charles Gilpin 
as a law-student, and was admitted to the Bar May 8, 
1847, a few days after attaining his majority. As a 
student he exhibited the careful and conscientious thor- 
oughness which characterized his after-life, and secured 
for him such great and deserved success in hi's profes- 
sion. He was a slow, methodical, and laborious reader, 
and laid strong and deep the foundations of a solid 
legal education. 

Shortly after his admission to the Bar he was elected 
Solicitor for the Board of Guardians of tlie Poor of 
Philadelphia, an office at that time entirely under the 
control of tEe Board, and unconnected with the Law 
Department of the city. Whilst discharging the du- 
ties of this office he attracted the attention of the Hon. 

5 



6 MEMOIR. 

William B. Reed, then District Attorney of Philadel- 
phia, one of the recognized leaders of the Bar of that 
day, and a gentleman distinguished no less for his keen 
and accurate knowledge of men than for his profound 
learning, ripe scholarship, and commanding ability, and 
whose friendship secured Mr. Hagert's appointment as 
one of the assistants of the Hon. Isaac Hazlehurst upon 
that gentleman's election to the office of City Solicitor 
in 1854. Here he displayed such marked ability as 
to warrant the assignment to him, although the young- 
est of the assistants, of some of the chief duties of the 
office, and with Mr. Hazlehurst he draughted many 
of the ordinances made necessary by the Act of 
Consolidation. 

The friendship of Mr. Reed, which ended only with 
that gentleman's death, was again of value to him when 
the political contest of 1856 resulted in the Hon. Lewis 
C. Cassidy being returned as elected District Attorney 
and the opening of the contested election case of Mann 
versus Cassidy, which still holds its place among the 
leading cases upon that branch of the law. At Mr. 
Reed's suggestion, Mr. Cassidy appointed Mr. Hagert 
his assistant, and he continued in this position until a 
year later, when the contest was decided in favor of 
Mr. Maun, discharging his duties with credit to him- 



MEMOIR. 7 

self and to his chief, and the Judges of the Court and 
senior members of the Bar speak with enthusiasm of the 
ability displayed by him in the trial of several homi- 
cide cases during that time. 

Retiring with Mr. Cassidy from the District Attor- 
ney's office, Mr. Hagert pursued his private practice for 
the next eleven years, steadily gaining in professional 
standing, and securing from the Bench and his breth- 
ren of the Bar the reputation of a careful, skilful, 
well-read, and thoroughly-equipped lawyer. His prac- 
tice was almost exclusively confined to the Civil 
Courts, and the eminently judicial qualities of his 
mind secured him from the Bench, and with the 
hearty approval of the Bar, frequent appointments as 
master and referee in cases involving intricate ques- 
tions of law and of fact. Successful in all branches 
of his profession, he delighted most in nisi prius con- 
tests, where his ability shone the brightest, and where 
he won his greatest and most enduring fame. There 
his marvellous powers of cross-examination and his 
general management of a case made him a valuable 
colleague and dangerous adversary. It may, however, 
truthfully be said, without in any way detracting from 
his natural abilities cultivated and sharpened by the 
most careful study and observation, that the secret of 



3 MEMOIR. 

his power was in his thoroiij;!! ami oxhaustivo prepara- 
tion of a ease. Every faet was earefully investigated ; 
he \vas familiar in advanee with all the testimony, 
whieh, if possible, was ehronologieally arrano;e(l ; the 
whole trial was nia|>pe<l out ; all sides of every ques- 
(itni were consideretl ; the law studied and a])plied ; 
and, when the case was opened, he was armed at every 
point, and no adversary, however able or adroit, eonld 
surprise him, and no emergency could arise for which 
he was unprepareil. h^ver cool, quiet, self-possessed, 
and passionless, nothing that was said or done, even 
in the most exciting (\Mitests, could in the least disturb 
his equanimity. In the examination and cross-exam- 
ination of witnesses he hail few rivals and no superi- 
or. He seemed to measure and read the thoughts of 
a witness at sight, and his success was due as much 
to his uniform courtesy and quiet, patient, and im- 
perturbable manner, as to the keen, searching, and 
insinuating questions with which he could draw facts 
from the most unfriendly and obstinate witness, or to 
the almost cruel skill with which he could exj^ose 
falsehood ; and he showed as well his absolute mastery 
of this great art by knowing when not to cross-examine. 
He attached great importance to the opening of a 
case, believing that it should so thoroughly prepare 



MEMOIR. 9 

<li(,' iiiindH (»(■ llifi jiii'or.s lliut I Ik; icHliniony lo (oll(»w 
would 1)0 ;it ()ii(;(! iiiKhd-Hlood iind ii|)|H('(;i;i(<id, :uid lli;i( 
tlio irnproHHioriH I lien iii;id(! would Ix; lasliu^. \\\ I Ik; 
:ir<j,iuncM( li(! vviis clcjii-, (orcIMc!, I(»<^i(:;d, uud jXTSUiiHivo, 
iKiVcr atlemplirif^ to drive, Ixit ulwuyH (o Iciiid tli(! jury ; 
never apjXMdiii^jj lo ilie |):iHHionH or |)r(!JudieeH, hul, lo 
the reason of IiIh liearerH, I lis \;\\\^\vA\ry. vvaH plain, 
Kimple, and well clioseu, and wiliioul, llie voiec, I lie 
])rc8cno(!, or IIk; maimer of an oralor, Ik; was a moKt 
impreHsive and eir(;(;tiv(! Hpeaker. Jianily raiHiiif^ liiH 
voice above a (toiiver.salional tone, wil.li ("ew {^eHlun-H, 
and utterly ohiivious and mmiindCul of all |)r(!H<'ut 
except th(! (Jom-t and jury, never lliinkiu^' (»!" liimseU', 
l)uL always of liis ease, lie spoke willi I he eariK.'.stncHH 
of conviction, HyHtetnutieally reviewing the tcHtiniony, 
pointinj^ out or reeoncilinfjj ineonKisteneiciH, anaiy/iug 
the motives of witnesH(!S, dovetailinjji; fartls and eireuiu- 
stunces so completely and so plausibly that it recpiired 
a rare advoeatc; to br(!ak the force of his ar<(iiiiienl or 
wrcHt from liitu I Ik- verdict. 

IFc waH ail ideal nisi prius lawyer, and as was said 
of Chief .justice Marshull when at the Jiar, "lie was 
persuaHive without eloquence, because lie always seemed 
to b(! himself |)er8uade(l." 

In December, 1868, Mr. Ifagert was a(^ain ealh.-d 



10 MEMOIR. 

to the District Attorney's office as first assistant for 
the Hon. Fiirmau Sheppard, who had been elected 
District Attorney at the October election of that year. 
While justly recognized as learned, eloquent, and 
scholarly, Mr. Sheppard was absolutely without ex- 
perience in the Criminal Courts, and it was with so- 
licitude that he souglit an assistant. The wisdom of 
the choice was never questioned. Mr. Hagert's abil- 
ity and worth commanded the respect and admiration 
of the Bench and of all his professional brethren, 
although to the community at large he was little 
known. Within a few months, however, the trial of 
the Eaton and Twitchell homicide cases, in which 
he successfully met gentlemen of long experience and 
well-tried and established ability, called forth his great 
powers and at once secured for him a leading position 
at the Criminal Bar. Both were cases in which the 
public was deeply concerned, and the protracted trials 
were watched Avith anxious interest. As was his cus- 
tom as long as he remained in the District Attorney's 
office, INIr. Hagert opened and summed up, examined 
and cross-examined the witnesses, and with that same 
method and thoroughness which had characterized him 
in the Civil Courts, so presented his evidence that 
"each link was perfectly forged and logically welded 



MEMOIR. 11 

to its brothers in the chain/' and neither skill nor 
eloquence could avail the defendants. As was said 
by one of his most distinguished adversaries, he i)roved 
each fact in a criminal trial with the same accuracy and 
precision with which in the Civil Courts he would 
prove the items of a book account. 

Mr. Hagert remained as assistant for Mr. Sheppard 
during the whole of his first term of office, as well as 
during his subsequent term, extending from 1875 to 
1878. To follow him through these years and speak 
in detail of the many important cases tried is un- 
necessary, and would be but mere repetition, for he 
was the same in all. Brief notice should, however, 
be made of one of the most celebrated homicide cases 
ever tried in Philadelphia, and one which was always 
considered the greatest triumph of Mr. Hagert's career 
at the Criminal Bar. 

In September, 1868, Mary Mohrman, a child of 
five years, was murdered under circumstances so brutal 
and repulsive as to arouse the indignation of the whole 
city. All efforts to detect the murderer were unsuc- 
cessful until nearly two years afterwards, when by 
mere accident suspicion pointed to John Hanlon, and 
he was indicted for the crime. The public interest was 
at once re-awakened, and the trial in November, 1870, 



12 MEMOIR. 

crowded the court-room daily with men from all the 
walks of life. The prisoner was represented by gentle- 
men of the highest distinction, and it was felt that 
their profound learning, consummate skill, tried ex- 
perience, and true eloquence would secure his acquittal, 
especially as the Commonwealth was forced to rely 
solely ujion circumstantial evidence and upon the con- 
fession alleged to have been made to a fellow-convict, 
named Dunn, whose career of crime on both sides of 
the Atlantic precluded the possibility of his testimony 
being believed unless every word was overwhelmingly 
corroborated. The jury was composed of men who 
were evidently slow to convict, and who would, if they 
could conscientiously do so, give the prisoner the benefit 
of the slightest doubt, the very atrocity of the crime 
making them slow to believe that any rational being 
could be guilty of such an offence. Every fact and 
circumstance of the murder was brought out in detail, 
and there was at last, after many days of patient labor, 
a perfect chain of circumstantial evidence, but nothing 
by which the prisoner was connected with the crime. 
The convict Dunn, who up to this time had been ex- 
cluded from the court-room, was then placed upon the 
stand, and the fire of the defence drawn by not only 
no eifort being made to protect him, but by boldly 



MEMOIR. 13 

examining him in chief upon his past life and draw- 
ing from him a full history of his career of crime. 
The confession alleged to have been made to him was 
then introduced, and the case of the Commonwealth 
closed. For days following all that ingenuity and skill 
could do was done to break down, explain away or 
weaken the Commonwealth's case, or throw upon it 
some doubt sufScient to acquit; all these efforts were 
met by skill so extraordinary as to call forth the ad- 
miration of every lawyer present, and no one appre- 
ciated it more or spoke of it in higher terms than the 
learned gentlemen representing the defendant. 

At last the testimony closed, and it is no disparage- 
ment to Mr. Sheppard, whose closing speech was one 
of exceptional power, pathos, and eloquence, replete 
with legal and classical learning, to say that the con- 
viction of Hanlon would have been impossible but for 
the masterly summing up of Mr. Hagert, who was 
familiar with the case down to the minutest detail. In 
a speech of nearly five hours, during which it some- 
times seemed as if his frail physique must succumb to 
the great and protracted labor of the case, with no 
pretence at rhetoric or eloquence, without a single 
appeal to passion or prejudice, and with perfect fair- 
ness to the prisoner, he analyzed fact after fact, circura- 



14 MEMOIR. 

stance after circumstance, explained away all seeming 
doubts and inconsistencies, and fitted the confession 
into the facts and corroborated it at every point, never 
for a moment losing the attention of the jury, until 
at last with almost mathematical accuracy he demon- 
strated that the crime could have been committed by 
no one but the prisoner. When he sat down all present 
felt that the case of the defendant, Avhich had seemed 
so hopeful, was now hopeless unto desperation. The 
prisoner was found guilty of murder in the first degree, 
and before his execution admitted the justice of his 
conviction. 

After serving six years as assistant, Mr. Hagert 
was, in November, 1877, elected District Attorney, and 
succeeded Mr. Sheppard in January, 1878, continuing 
in the office until 1881, when he resumed his private 
practice, which he pursued with unceasing industry 
until his fatal illness. 

Realizing the responsibilities of his position, every 
duty was faithfully and conscientiously performed, but 
the long hours in Court, the exacting labors and con- 
stant worry and anxiety of the office, undermined a 
constitution never strong and sowed the seeds of the 
disease which ended his life. 

As District Attorney he was in the highest sense of 



MEMOIR. 15 

the word the Commonwealth's officer. He never re- 
garded himself as a mere prosecutor, but recognized 
the semi-judicial functions of the office, which required 
him to be just to the prisoner as well as to the Com- 
monwealth, and while those he believed guilty were 
prosecuted with all his force and ability, yet if there 
was in his judgment a well-founded doubt, he was 
prompt to express it and to ask for an acquittal. 

It is but just to Mr. Hagert's memory to state that 
in the District Attorney's office he made enemies of 
many who, presuming upon their power, political or 
otherwise, sought to influence him In the discharge of 
his duties. Those who made such efforts knew little 
of his nature. Beneath his quiet and patient manner 
was a will of iron, and his "No" was final. He rep- 
resented the community whose protection had been con- 
fided to his keeping, and was absolutely immovable, 
knowing no party, no leaders, no class, doing his duty 
fearlessly and without regard to consequences ; and 
while he suffered cruel wrongs at the hands of those 
who, by nature or education, were unable to appreciate 
his devotion to duty, or to measure a public official by 
his high standard, he left the office with a clear con- 
science and a stainless record, having through all its 
trials, temptations, labors, and vexations been 



16 MEMOIR. 

" Steady to liis trust ; 
Inflexible to wrong and obstinately just." 

Returning to his private practice, Mr. Hagert sought 
the quieter and less exacting branches of his profession ; 
but old and new clients came to him, and his life was 
a busy one, until the summer of 1885, when his health 
failed. After a month's illness he was able to go to 
the mountains and subsequently to the sea-shore in the 
vain hope of regaining his strength. But, alas, it was 
too late. That terrible malady, Bright's disease, had 
marked him as its victim and his life's work was done. 
He was able to be at his office for only a few weeks 
after his return to the city, and from the latter part 
of November was unable to leave his bed. The 
highest medical skill was powerless to save him, and 
after days of agony the calm followed, and he gradually 
grew weaker day by day, hour by hour, until Friday 
morning, December 18, 1885, when he quietly, peace- 
fully, and without a struggle passed from life. 

" When sinks the righteous soul to rest, 
How mildly beam the closing eyes, 
How gently heaves th' expiring breast!" 

Mr. Hagert was married February 9, 1854, to Miss 
Mary Mauley, of Philadelphia, who, with an only son, 



MEMOIR. 17 

Charles H., survives him. An older son, Sidney, died 
in the summer of 1876, in his twenty-first year. 

In this brief memoir no effort has been made to 
give a complete and detailed history of Mr. Hagert's 
professional life. The cases he tried were many and 
important, but only a few of those which were of a 
public character have been mentioned, and no note has 
been taken of the vast amount of quiet work done, of 
which the public knew nothing. Sufficient, however, 
has been said to show that he was a zealous and faithful 
laborer in the profession he loved, honored, and adorned. 
He was an eminently useful lawyer, his highest ambi- 
tion was to serve his clients, public and private, to the 
best of his ability, with honor and fidelity; always 
equal to his work, whether it was great or small, im- 
portant or unimportant. 

There have been more eloquent speakers, more pro- 
found lawyers, men whose abilities were more dazzling 
and attractive, but take him all in all in every branch 
of his profession, as counsellor or advocate, before the 
Court in banc or before the jury, it will be difficult to 
find his equal. 

As an adversary he was fair and honorable, scorning 
any success won by questionable methods. As a col- 
league he was especially valuable, possessing in an 



18 MEMOIR. 

eminent degree that best of qualities in a colleague, 
unselfishness, being ever ready to take a leading or 
subordinate position as the work before him might 
demand, and always giving to his senior or junior the 
benefit of his knowledge, study, and thought, fully 
and without reserve, caring little who used it or who 
reaped the glory, provided it aided the cause he had 
at heart. 

His practice extended over a period of thirty-eight 
years, and he died in the midst of his work and in the 
zenith of his powers, with the recollection of his con- 
flicts, triumphs, and defeats fresh in the minds of all, 
but he leaves no professional brother to recall a word 
or act not in accord with the liighest standards of 
moral and legal ethics, or which tended in the slightest 
decree to cloud the fair fame of the Bar of Phila- 
delphia. 

By many Mr. Hagert will be remembered as a dis- 
tinguished lawyer, a useful and honored citizen ; by a 
chosen few his memory will be cherished in a nearer 
and tenderer relation. All his life a student of gen- 
eral literature, with a fondness for history, travels, 
and poetry, books were his delight; when worn with 
toil he turned to them for pleasure and recreation, and 
the volumes of his well-selected library bore the marks 



MEMOIR. 19 

of constant use. Fond of music, flowers, and pic- 
tures, cultured, refined, and simple in his tastes, in- 
structive and entertaining in his conversation, decided 
in his opinions, but tolerant of the views of others, 
warm-hearted, kind, earnest, and sincere, unostenta- 
tious in his charities and loyal in his friendships, 
Henry S. Hagert filled the measure of a perfect gentle- 
man. 

" To spoak his memory's grateful claim 

On those who mourn him most unci bear his name, 
O'ercomes the trembling hand, 
O'ercomes the heart, unconscious of relief, 
O'ercomes expression of true friendship's grief. 
Save placing this memorial o'er his dust." 



POEMS. 



IISTTEODUOTIOK 



Mr. Hagert's youthful pen was often devoted to 
poetic and dramatic composition, — and many of his 
poems were printed in the leading literary journals of 
the day, while others and some unfinished plays re- 
mained in manuscript. From these verses a brief selec- 
tion has been made to accompany the memoir of his 
professional life, and thus give to his friends a per- 
manent record of the man. His love of the drama 
was constant, and almost to the end he was a frequent 
visitor at the theatre, always selecting the best plays 
and the best players, and always giving to his friends 
sound criticism, the result of his matured and thought- 
ful judgment, tempered by his sympathetic nature and 
his delight in everything that added to the stock of 
intellectual pleasure and the means of wholesome re- 
laxation. For many years he had quite forsaken the 
Muses, and often laughed at his old aspiration for 
poetic fame, yet he did not dislike a reference to his 

23 



24 INTRODUCTION. 

early compositions and to the goodly company of the 
poets in whose ranks he had once stood. For this 
reason it is thought that a selection of his verses would 
make a suitable addition to this modest memorial. It 
is submitted to the kindly notice of his friends and of 
the public, not to establish any claim for him as a 
poet, but to recall the pastime of his youth and leisure, 
and to show how the sound lawyer and thorough 
student had found pleasure in the composition of 
poetry well worth preserving. 



COLUMBUS BEFORE THE QUEEN. 

Night over Spain — the moon is up, 

And onward treads her radiant way; 

While nobles fill the festal cup, 

And quaff the wine 'till breaking day. 

Forth from the royal halls a light 

Streams out upon the summer night; 

Darting its rays amid the trees, 

That rock and rustle with the breeze. 

But here no nobles drink and rail — 

A continent is in the scale. 

With form erect and folded hands. 

Beside her throne the princess stands. 

With flowing curls, and sparkling eye. 

And noble form, and forehead high. 

And listening in attentive mood 

To one who now before her stood. 

While at her side, with eager stare. 

An aged man with silvery hair 

25 



26 COLUMBUS BEFORE THE QUEEN. 

Leaned on his hand liis reverend head, 

And noted all the speaker said. 

And wondering girls, and knights of war. 

Declared they ne'er had heard before 

Such daring schemes, such hopes of gain, 

Broached yet before the court of Spain. 

And who is he ? and what the cause 

Which thus their whole attention draws? 

List to his words as 'fore the queen 

He stands with firm yet modest mien. 

And urges her by every tie 

That binds on earth, that binds on high. 

To grant him but his one request. 

And hers the glory ! all the rest ! 

"Princess, for near a score of years, 

My bosom tossed with hopes and fears. 

Has in its deep recesses nursed 

This project, and had nearly burst. 

When kings witli cold, indifferent air 

Bade me seek patronage elsewhere. 

I begged — I prayed — I bowed the knee — 

They had no sympathy with me. 

They called me mad, and said my schemes 

Were foolishness, and idle dreams; 



COLUMBUS BEFORE THE QUEEN. 27 

That in the west there e'er should lie 

A land unknown. I answered, 'Aye.' 

* 'Twas strange/ they said, ' that not a sage 

Who lived in that illustrious age, 

And wore a monk's or leech's robe. 

Had thought that on this spacious globe 

There lay a world — unknown — unseen — 

With mines of gold, and fields of green 

And waving herbage, and that /, 

The Genoese, who, passing by 

A convent in a forest wild. 

Had begged a crust for his starving child, 

Should e'er pretend the sea to dare 

In search of worlds they knew not where !^ 

I waited not a word to say. 

But bent toward Spain my lonely way. 

And now within your presence stands 

The fool, who dreams of unknown lands, 

And urges you by all that's fair. 

On earth, in heaven, in ocean, air. 

By the wild blaze whose dazzling light, 

On Glory's altar kindling bright. 

Illumines sierra, woodland, glen, 

Glist'ning on ranks of mail-clad men ; 



28 COLUMBUS BEFORE THE QUEEN. 

While the last remnants of a race, 
Whose monumental piles yet grace 
Your native land, are fled before 
The standard of the Cross once more, 
To raise its folds in rich Cathay, 
And bear through ocean's untrod way, 
Sped by the bounty of thy hand, 
God's precious truth to heathen land. 
And then from every heart shall flow. 
Once taught with love divine to glow, 
Praises and thanks to her who blest 
Benighted heathen of the west 
With cheering tidings of the lov^e 
Of God, who reigns in heaven above, 
And pray that He may ever shed 
His kindliest blessings on thy head. 
And lisping babes, in accents weak, 
Who scarce their parent's name can speak, 
Sliall in their night's prayers tutored be 
To cry ' God bless thy throne and thee !' 
The Indian mother as she leads 

Her boy across the forest wild, 
And sows within his breast the seeds 

Of true religion, pure and mild, 



COLUMBUS BEFORE THE QUEEN. 29 

Shall bid him reverence — not in vain — 

' Our good Queen Isabel of Spain.' 

And burning altars bathed in blood, 

And priests drenched with the crimson flood, 

Shall cease to offer on the shrine, 

But teach their victim things divine ; 

Fling to the waves their gore-stained knife, 

And end the sacrifice of life ; 

O'erturn their altars, wash each stain 

That may upon their robes remain ; 

And kneeling on the verdant sod. 

Pray to the true and only God ; 

While thousand voices joined in one 

Shall praise the Father and the Son. 

And then, when on the bed of death 

They shall resign their fleeting breath, 

The quivering lip, the faltering voice. 

Shall with their latest gasp rejoice. 

And bless — and praise — and pray for thee. 

Who saved their souls eternally. 

Nor is this all : our holy Church 

Will have no need of further search 

For sinners — amid polar snows. 

Or where the hot sirocco blows. 



30 COLUMBUS BEFORE THE QUEEN. 

There, 'neatli your fostering guardian care, 
A field lies ready for the share 
To turn the rugged earth, and then 
Sow wide the seed of love again, 
And sow it Nvide, and sow it deep, 
That naught may break its transient sleep, 
Till it has risen, and shall be 
Blooming for immortality. 
Thus may the Church extend her power — 
The issue hangs upon this hour. 
Reject ray suit, and Portugal 
Shall triumph in thy kingdom's fall. 
Point at thy throne the lip of scorn. 
And cry, ' Behold ! see how forlorn 
Chivalrous Spain becomes of late! 
Who is it guides her ship of state?' 
And sea-washed Venice, regal Rome, 
Flanders, the busy merchant's home, 
France, Germany, and England too. 
Shall rail triumphantly at you. 
Spain shall regret it — and ere morn 
Lights yon gray tower and I am gone, 
You then shall ask in anxious plight, 
' AVhere is our guest of yesternight ?' 



COLUMBUS BEFORE THE QUEEN. 3I 

^ The guest is gone — the hoped-for gain 

Reserved for others ! lost to Spain !' 

Sorrow shall rankle in your breast, 

That ye would grant not my request. 

Princes have wide dominion found, 

Planted the Cross on foreign ground; 

But all the wealth dominion brought, 

By their jliscoveries, is as naught 

Compared to that which must attend 

On the fulfilment of this end. 

Then, by the never-ending fame 

Which must await you ; by the shame 

And withering raillery of the great; 

By all the gain to Church and State — 

Glory and gold — but nobler still. 

The Church, with converts new to fill; 

Speak but the word — raise that fair hand, 

And I will find the unknown land." 

He ceased — and forth the mandate flew : 

^* Fly ! Launch the ships — call forth the crew — 

Stay not a moment on this shore, 

But go! those kingdoms to explore. 

My jewels — crowns of weight and size — 

I'll pledge to speed your enterprise. 



32 COLUMBUS BEFORE THE QUEEN. 

Bear but to heathen land the Cross, 

How great the gain ! How small the loss!" 

Columbus bowed before the queen, 

Went forth — nor did return, I ween, 

Till every promise was redeemed, 

Which in that hour so brilliant seemed. 

To Spain, a golden realm he gave; 

To Isabel — beyond the grave — 

What guerdon e'er more just could be? — 

A golden immortality ! 

June 24, 1842. 



THE SLEEP OF THE DEAD. 

Sweet is the tomb — the all -forgetting tomb — 

The dreamless couch round which no phantoms glide 
To harrow up the soul, or read a doom, 

Of yore in their dread Sabbath prophesied. 
Calm are its slumbers — never more shall pride. 

Hatred, or malice wound the sleeping clay; 
Wrong not the dead — they should be deified — 

They lived and suffered, and have passed away ; 
Here be all feuds forgot — ye, too, shall have your day. 

Your day of trouble, when the cup of Grief, 

Full of its Marah-waters, must be drained 
E'en to the dregs; when ye will need relief 

From those upon whose head your lips have rained 
Curses; when they who were by you disdained 

Shall offer, in their mockery, to dry 
The hot dew of your brows by anguish strained 

Through the parched skin. Ah ! then, in grief to fly 
For refuge to the grave, and find but calumny. 

3 83 



34 THE SLEEP OF THE DEAD. 

Let the dead rest ; if ye must " snarl and bite," 

Turn to the living — there your venom spill ; 
Put on Deception's mask, then vent your spite, 

Sharpen your fangs, and gnaw, and rend, and kill. 
'Tis a sweet banquet — eat and drink your fill. 

Ye can thrive well on malice, but forbear 
To stir the ashes of the dead; your skill 

Can never fan a glowing ember there. 
At which the hated torch of vengeance to repair. 

Look on the dead, and if ye cower and quail 

To think that ye shall be like them one day — 
That the cold coffin-worm, with slimy trail, 

Shall crawl across your forehead, or from play 
Within your eyeless sockets forth shall stray, 

To feast upon your rottenness, your hair 
Shall drip the sick'uing grave-damps, and the gray. 

Dry dust of the rank sepulchre, for air, 
Fill up your nostrils — then by the cold grave forbear ! 

Think on your last dark hour, when a gaunt form, 
Spectral and shadowy, shall stoop and set 

A mystic seal upon you; when the storm 
Of conscience rages, till its spray has wet 



THE SLEEP OF THE DEAD. 35 

Your brow; when, like the doom in Venice met, 
The walls of your lone chamber seem to close 

Upon you crushed and bleeding, dying, yet 
Never to die — from torments such as those. 

Would you be free? Withhold— break not the dead's 
repose. 



NIGHT. 

"Night is the time for rest:" 
To close iu balmy sleep 

Tlie eyes with paiu opprest — 
The time to pray and weep. 

Night is the time for dreams: 
To rove each fancied plain ; 

To bathe in crystal streams, 
Or walk among the slain. 

Night is the time for prayer: 
To lift the soul above, 

While angels wait, to bear 
The murmured words of love. 

Night is the time for thought: 

The busy world is still. 
When each his couch has sought, 
And dreams his slumbers fill. 
36 



NIGHT. 37 

Night 18 the tunc to die: 

When all is hushed in sleep, 

To close the weeping eye, 

While friends their vigils keep. 

Then as tiie fading sight 

Grows more and still more dim. 

To bid the world "Good-night," 
And soar to rest with Him. 



May 21, 1842. 



SONG OF THE WIND. 

I COME — I come — 
O'er the ocean fonin, 
Among the woodlands 

I roam — I roam. 

My car is briglit 

With the early lioht, 
And with tints of the rainbow dye; 

My coursers wait 

The word of Fate, 
And away — and away they'll fly. 

I've been on the deep, 

Where the Peris sleep 
In tlieir sounding ocean caves; 

Not a zephyr stirred, 

And naught was licard 
Save the nnn*niuring of the waves. 
88 



SONG OF THE WIND. 39 

I've been on the deep 

When from their sleep 
The tempest has roused them up, 

And away they flew, 

Like the morning dew 
'Neath the sun from the flow'ret's cup. 



I've been on the land. 

Where armies stand 
In battle's dread array; 

I've hurried by 

On a storm-cloud high. 
And where ? oh ! where were they ? 

The oaks have fallen 'neath my power — 
I've made a desert in an hour 
Of lands as smiling, fair and gay 
As aught beneath the light of day. 

I've listened to love in ladies' bowers — 
I've kissed the cheeks of the early flowers 
While their tiny cups, all dripping with dew, 
Bent low at my car as it onward flew. 



40 SONG OF THE WIND. 

I've heard the maiden her sorrows tell — 
How she loved a youth and what befell ; 
I've heard another breathe into my ear 
Secrets I would not you should hear. 

Confessor I've been to hidies and lords, 
To love-lettered damsels and men of swords; 
I've seen and I've heard both joy and grief 
That I tell ye not for your unbelief. 

Ivnin I've caused, and wreck, and death — 
I've smitten the fairest with my breath ; 

And now I come, I come to thee — 

Beware ! lest I come as an enemy ! 

With Terror and Famine behind my car! 

To scatter destruction wide and I'ar ! 



ON A RAINY DAY. 

Rain on — rain on — I love to hear, 
When sheltered in some lonely spot, 

Drop after drop, like widow's tear, 
Weep on the moss-grown cot ; 

And dripping to the ground again. 

Seek on the earth its fellow-rain. 

Rain on — rain on — I love to see 

Each drop, like diamond glist'ning bright. 
Sparkling on grass and leaf-clad tree, 

With the refulgent light 
Of sun just glancing from between 
The clouds — yet scarcely to be seen. 

Rain on — rain on — I love the sweet 

And fragrant scent of new-mown hay. 

And fresh-blown flowers, which always meet 

On such a rainy day. 

41 



42 ON A RAINY DAY. 

Eising from garden, field, and hill, 
The pure reviving air to fill. 



Rain on — rain on — I love to feel, 
When seated by the open pane, 

Like urchins who from study steal, 
The cool refreshing rain; 

Borne by the wind, come peeping through, 

And sprinkle me like morning dew. 

Rain on — rain on — above them all 

I love the rosy-tinted fruit, 
Which with the rain begins to fall, 

The choicest taste to suit. 
And creeping vines on ladies' bower 
Laugh 'neath the influence of the shower. 



Rain on — rain on — I love — oh ! no — 

I had forgotten in the joy 
Which such a scene might well bestow, 

The houseless orphan boy. 
And widowed mother meanly clad. 
Out in the rain, forlorn and sad. 



ON A RAINY DAY. 43 

Then niin no more — oh, coase to liill ! 

I will reHi'j^n my every joy : 
Sight — hearing — Hmell — tante — feeling — all — 

So that it rain no more. 
I would not for a moment be 
The oauHe of human minery. 



THE DYING GIRL. 

Being flowers to deck her hair, 
And weave bright garlands for her snowy brow; 
'Twere fit that she should wear 
Such emblems now. 

For they are not more bright 
Thau the pure spirit of that beauteous one, 
Whose day fast sets in night — 
Whose race is run. 

Nor are they yet more sweet 
Than the soft azure of her languid eyes, 
Where love and beauty meet 
To claim the prize. 

Nor yet more gentle, they, 
In their mysterious language, than her voice. 
Which, like the breaking day. 
Bade all rejoice. 

44 



THE DYING GIRL. 45 

Haste, then, and bring the flowers, 
And place them gently in her golden hair; 
For few will be the hours 
They'll flourish there. 

Haste ! with your chaplet ! haste ! 
Alas ! too late ! the lovely one hath died ! 
Your garland is but waste — 
Cast it aside. 



TO A LAKE. 

SwKET lake, upon tliy silver breast 
I'd wear my weary life away, 

And gently sink at eve to rest. 
As fades the sun's receding ray. 

While the fair moon, in virgin pride, 
Ck)nu\s pcoj>ing up the niountuin-side, 
And slanting shadows lightly steal 
Ac'i'DSs thy bosom, and reveal 
Each pebble sparkling with the light 
Of star-paged Empress of the night; 
And verdant banks, and mountain hoar, 
And trees that spot thy green-clad shore. 
Here 'mid this scene of beauty rare, 
This silvery light — this balmy air — 
These towering hills — this rustling wood- 
Where the wild Indian hunter stood, 
In feathered ])omp and fiuvs arrayed. 
To greet his dark-browed ibrest maid. 
46 



TO A LAKE. 47 

Here could I live, and live alone, 
And keep companionship with none. 

Alone in this secluded spot? 

Ah ! no. I'd have but one — but one, 
Whose form and feature — every mien, 
Would not unfit her for a queen ; 
Whose raven curls and fragile form 
Would need protection from the storm; 
Whose mind, well stored with costly gems, 
Richer than richest diadems, 
Would be a dower — worth by far 
More than the brightest midnight star. 
With such a fairy, who would not 
Dwell in the meanest herdsman's cot? 

But when around your path are strewn 
Such Eden beauties, who would give 

This lovely spot for court or throne, 
Or in a palace wish to live? 

May 24, 1842. 



PLEASURE AND PAIN. 

Hours there are when falls the bitter tear, 

And from the bosom bursts the long-pent sigh — 
When life seems but a desert, and the bier 

A couch bedecked with flowers, where kings might 
lie; 
And there are hours when Mirth, with laughing eye. 

Tosses her saffron wreath, or with her young 
And rosy playmate. Pleasure, merrily 

Dances a measure to some gay tune, sung 
By Fancy, on whose harp a thousand dreams are hung. 

To-day the goblet and the mazy dance, 

Music and mirth, the laughter-loving lip. 
And beauty beaming in the bright eye's glance. 

While Youth and Joy to lute and timbrel trip; 
Quick bounds the heart, and deeply we must dip 

Into the cup of Pleasure. We forget 
That he who would be happy should but sip 

The bubbles from tlie brim — the chalice set 
With many-colored gems, yet holds the draught regret. 

48 



PLEASURE AND PAIN. 49 

To-morrow brings a change — the eye is dull, 

The voice sounds hollow, and the cheek hath 
caught 
A flush as of a fever — you might cull 

A rose would match its crimson — hours have 
wrought 
Decay's dark work upon her, such as thought 

Sickens to look upon ; then comes a thrill 
And tremor of the limbs, with meaning fraught — 

A pallor of the cheek — a creeping chill — 
A clutching of the hands — a shriek, short, sharp, and 
shrill. 

Stand by the couch, but utter not a word. 

Listen to that low muttering; it seems 
Like the faint whispering of spirits heard, 

At midnight, by the waters. Hark ! she dreams. 
And tells us of her vision; of the streams 

That wash her father's cottage by the hill; 
Or is it frenzy? — for a wild light gleams 

In her blue eyes, which love was wont to fill. 
Oh ! leave me now — I'd be alone — 'tis very still ! 



EXTRACT. 

So die the young, ere yet the bud has burst 
Its leafy prison-house — perchance, 'tis best — 

The flower may phie and perish with the thirst 
For dew and moisture, but the dead will rest. 
Heedless of storm and sunshine; on their breast 

The modest violet at Spring will bloom. 
And speak their noteless epitaph ; — the west 

May blow too rudely in an hour of gloom. 
But still it clings to thee, lone tenant of the tomb. 

It clings to thee! 'Twas a most lovely creed, 

That taught within a flower might dwell the 
soul 
Of a lost friend. Wronged one, does it not breed 

Within thee quiet thoughts of a green knoll. 
Bedecked with daisies, though no sculptured scroll 
Be there to tell thy virtues ? Oh ! 'tis sweet 

To know that when the dews from heaven have 
stole 

50 



EXTRACT. 



51 



Down to the earth, those pencilled lips shall meet, 
The cold sod of thy grave, and love's long kiss repeat ! 

Then gird thy loins with patience, from the crowd 
Be thou a willing exile ; but if Fate 

Hath otherwise decreed it, if the proud 

Should sneer upon thee, or the rich and great 
Laugh at thy misery, do thou await 

The coming of that hour which shall decide 
The issue of the game ; and then, with state, 

Wrapping thy robe around thee, do thou glide 
Away to thy long rest and sleep in regal pride. 



THE LAST OF THE SACHEMS. 

"Hark! heard ye not a footstep tread 
On the fallen leaves of the oak that spread 
The stony ground of the woodland dell? 
Heard ye not such? I pray you tell/' 
"'Twas naught but the rabbit, whose tiny feet 
The leaves of the forest have gently beat." 

"Hist! didst not hear a dismal yell, 

Such as old beldames and legends tell 

Is the Indians' war-cry and funeral song? 

List how the hills the strains prolong." 

" 'Tis the panther's yell, or the wild wolf's howl, 

Or the scream of the dusky midnight owl." 

" Look ! saw ye not a dagger gleam, 
Like a sunlight ray, or a moonlight beam. 
In the dim shade of the wild wood cast? 
Saw ye it not ? 'Tis gone ! and past !" 
52 



THE LAST OF THE SACHEMS. 53 

"Twas naught but the lightning, whose storm-nursed 

blaze 
Ye can scarce perceive through yon tangled maze." 

" 'Twas not the rabbit whose tramp I heard ; 

'Twas not the scream of the midnight bird, 

Or the wild wolf's howl, or the panther's yell, 

Or the blaze of the lightning, as ye would tell. 

For yonder's the last Mohican chief; 

The race of his fathers was bright yet brief; 

And he alone of the tribe is left ! 

Homeless and friendless ! of all bereft ! 

His was the tramp, and his the yell, 

And the gleam of the dagger, I know full well. 

He has fallen ! fallen ! and deep in his breast 

The glittering blade has found a rest ! 

The death-dew is starting on his brow ! 

And where is the last of the Sachems now ?" 

July 16, 1842. 



CLOUDS AT SUNSET. 

Clouds, beautiful clouds, 
Of azure and purple and snow-white hue, 
That skirt the sky at the fall of eve. 
When the sunset is glimmering, too. 

Clouds, beautiful clouds. 
Like armies ye tread the heavenly plain ; 
Now charging, now flying from the foe, 
And then back to the combat again. 

Clouds, beautiful clouds, 
I love ye because of the thoughts ye wake : 
Dreams of the past; for the future, hope; 
I adore ye alone for their S£^ke. 

Clouds, beautiful clouds. 
That sped on the wings of the wind, still roam 
O'er distant climes — a cliangeable scene — 
Tell me, oh! tell me, where is your home? 
54 



CLOUDS AT SUNSET. 55 

Clouds, beautiful clouds, 
Sweet rovers o'er infinitude of space, 
Ye rest not in your wild wanderings; 
Ye have no certain abiding-place. 

Clouds, beautiful clouds; 
Haste on — haste ye on — in your truant way, 
With your airy forms in their garabollings; 
Ye are too lovely to need my lay. 

June 13, 1842. 



THE WRECK. 

Night on the sea — the ocean's beauteous breast, 
Lashed by the tempest wind to sparkling foam, 
Leaves not the mariner a hope of rest. 
Shuts from his eye the distant sight of home; 
Compelled along the stormy deep to roam, 
Around — beneath — a waste of waters spread ! 
Tumult, and an impenetrable gloom. 
With thunder-clouds that lower o'er his head, 
Revealed by the wild lightning's blaze, deep — quick — 
and red. 

Billow on billow dashed — immensely high — 
And storm-fiends revelling in the midnight air — 
High o'er the waves the vessels bounding fly — 
Curses from those who even hell would dare — 
From the affrighted shrieks perchance a prayer — 
While the frail bark is driven headlong on. 
And now, down ! down ! with all her freight of care; 
And they Avho laughed the whirlwind into scorn. 
Have found a weedy grave, and thither they have gone. 
66 



THE WRECK. 57 

Well, let them rest — 'twere just that they should lie, 
Stricken by thunderbolts they could not fear; 
Upon their tomb no sunbeams from the sky 
Resplendent glitter, and no mother's tear 
Shall e'er bedew them while they slumber here; 
'Till by an earthquake's shock the ocean rent, 
Shall hear their curses from its watery bier; 
It cannot — for the coral worm has spent 
Ages in building for the dead a monument! 



1842. 



TANTALLON CASTLE. 

Ye moss-grown towers and turrets gray, 

Within whose ruined walls 
The moping owl the livelong day 

Screams in the silent halls;. 
As though to wake the lordly line 

Of Douglas from their rest; 
All mail-clad men with arms that shine; 

Of Scottish knights the best — 
Can ye not tell of days long gone? 

Of many a wond'rous feat? 
When chiefs in tourney onward borne 

Did one another meet? 
The clashing swords — the broken lance — 

The warrior disarmed — 
The angry word — the fiery glance — 

The " ladye-loves" alarmed? 
Yes, and of sieges long sustained 

Against the princely James; 
Of fellowship with kings who reigned; 

A list of honored names. 
58 



TANTALLON CASTLE. 59 

Tlien tread not rudely, stranger, tread 

Lightly, within these walls; 
For 'round each hallowed spot is shed 
Remembrance of the noble dead, 
Who fought the fight, then made their bed 

In their ancestral halls. 

May 25, 1842. 



MOONLIGHT. 

How lovely is this moonlight ! how the clew, 

Bright nature's tear-drops, sparkles with its beams ! 
While the pure bosom of the wood-girt streams 

Back to the moon gives its effulgence too. 

And murmuring rivulets, stealing gently through 
Their rock-cut channels, sing the siren song, 
That, like a sprite, wanders the hills along; 

Lulling the scythe-armed peasant's weary soul. 
Filling his spirit with a holy calm ; 

While the wind-driven ripples refluent roll. 
Waving the lily, waking from his rest 

The bright-eyed lizard, the broad leaves embalm. 

And more — The mild and mellow moonlight best 
Lights the untended path of youthful love; 
As arm in arm through flowery meads they rove. 
Or on the fallen trunk of some old oak 
Breathe such soft tales as Sappho sung and spoke : 
Fearful lest there should be some list'ner near, 
Their troth is plighted in each other's ear; 
60 



MOONLIGHT. 61 

Which ever and anon they chance to miss, 
And then, love's language is a honeyed kiss. 

Yet more — The moon's pale, silver-tinted light 

Gleams upon other scenes more stern than these; 
It oft hath viewed a melancholy sight, 

And heard upon the still and gentle breeze 
The dying warrior's groan — the victor's shout. 
That hailed the battle won — the dreadful rout, 
Carnage, and pillage reign triumphant then — 
Success makes fiends of what before were men ! 
On the dead chieftain's ghastly brow it shone, 
Upon his form, cold as the marble stone; 
While round his lip there lurked a sickly smile, 
Which told that Vengeance struggled for a while 
With Death, and longed a moment to be free. 
To wreak upon his foe its enmity. 

Yes, I do love you, moonlight. You have not 
The dazzling radiance of the noonday sun, 
Nor yet the timid beauty of the stars ; 

You shed alike on tower and moss-roofed cot. 
Where blushing innocence is wooed and won. 

Your wild, bewitching beauty — lovelier far 

Than either noonday sun or midnight star. 
July 13, 1842. 



THE UNKNOWN BEAUTY. 

I SAW her but the once; the beautiful, 

The loved, and all of gayety and life 

Were there, and gathered round her. 

With the rosy blusli of youthful beauty 

Stamped upon their checks ; yet she of all 

Was tiic most beautiful, and like the moon 

Amid the glowing crowd of still, pale stars, 

Was lovelier than them all. It might not be, 

But still it seemed the scene had lent her more 

Than earthly beauty, for the organ rolled 

Wave upon wave of rapturous music. 

Like the il^^olian harp — so low, so sweet. 

It would have matched the melody of heaven ; 

And then, as though a whirlwind swept the strings, 

There rushed upon the ear the trumjiet tones ; 

Fit contrast to the scene, for now men paid 

Their homage at the bier of royalty, 

And warring France had lost a noble son. 

The pall was there — the crown — the sword — and all 

C2 



THE UNKNOWN BEAUTY. Q^ 

Was slirouded in deep gloom ; tapers dim lit, 

That cast a sickly shade on every face, 

Were burning 'round the bier, and from the ceil. 

High, arched, and Gothic, hung the flag of France, 

Still as that vast wide multitude, while priests 

Walked to and fro with light and cautious step. 

Or swung the urn with burning incense filled. 

Or chanted for the dead. . . . 

I saw her there — alone amid that crowd 

Of eager gazers, and she seemed too pure, 

Too frail, to mingle in the throng of men 

Whose only thought is self, whose God is Gold. 

I saw her but the once, yet in her eye 
There dwelt such depths of rapturous mystery 
As chained my spirit down to Beauty's car, 
And hailed me as its pris'ner. I adored, 
And with a Pilgrim's ardor, at the shrine 
Of Love knelt down to worship; for to me. 
So lovely was the gaze of her blue eyes, 
It might have won the eagle from his prey 
And made of him a dove. . . . 

I saw her but the once, and yet the grace 

And beauty of her form were so divine. 

That not 'till death has chained me in the tomb 



64 THE UNKNOWN BEAUTY. 

Shall I forget it, or forget to love 

Her with the azure eyes and raven hair — 

The form of matchless symmetry — the voice 

Soft, sweet, and musical, like silver lute 

That floated 'round me — she who stood alone 

Amid that silent throng, an "Unknown Beauty." 

August 25, 1842. 



RUINS. 

Emblems of fallen greatness, grandeur, power, 
What lessons ye can teach us ! Oh ! I love 
To sit at midnight's lone and silent hour 
And watch the small, pale stars that gleam above, 
Or listen to the song of amorous dove, 
That all night long among your arches gray 
Sighs mournfully, as though it were to move 
Your old possessors who have passed away, 
And, 'neath the marble floor, now rest in grim array. 

Ye have survived them yet, and they were naught 
But what ye are, the senseless clods of earth. 
That other hands have in strange figures wrought. 
And made of much and far surpassing worth; 
They too, like you, like everything, had birth, 
And passed through infancy, and youth, and age. 
They had their tears, their laughter, and their mirth ; 
At times the wit, again the reverend sage. 
Ready to treat for peace, or bloody wars to wage. 

5 65 



6 (J RUINS. 

But they have gone; and now the sculptured urn 
Holds all that yet remains — their ashes ! all ! 
Upon their hearths the fires no longer burn — 
The flames expired upon their master's pall ; 
The baying of the hounds — the bugle-call — 
The evening revelry — have ceased and gone, 
And all betokens a sad, dismal fall ; 
Columns and figures from their places torn. 
With ruin stalking round, wild, ruthless, and forlorn. 

August 24, 1842. 



THE RAID. 

There was no sound upon the dreamy air 
To break the tomb-like stillness of that eve; 

There was no moon in heaven, no stars were there 
With their pale light the darkness to relieve; 

The sky was black, and earth, too, seemed to wear 
Weeds for a funeral, like men who grieve 

For friends departed; and the sluggish mere 

Dashed up its inky waters thick and drear. 

A moment more — " Now listen ! did I hear 
The bleating of the herds upon the hill?" 

Thus spake a mother as, with anxious ear, 

She kissed her babe and bade her boy be still ; 

For it was dark, and greatly did she fear 

The coming storm might work her husband ill, 

Who had been out all day among the rocks 

With crook and shepherd's pipe to watch his flocks. 

One long, loud roll ! " At last the storm is come." 
The cottage door flew open, and fierce men 

G7 



68 THE RAID. 

Rushed in amid the clang of trump and drum. 

'Twas not the thunder-peal that echoed then, 
But the black cannon ; with it came the hum 

Of boisterous voices far down the glen, 
And quick the red bombs hissing flew, and burst, 
And licked the very dust as though athirst. 

Through the deep darkness that o'erspread the earth 
The gleaming sword and flashing torch were seen, 

And the wild blaze went up from cot where mirth 
And song and jovial dance had lately been. 

Ah ! many a quiet home and smiling hearth 
Were desolate on that dread night, I ween, 

And many a mother wandered with her child, 

Barefoot, across the rocks and thorny wild. 

On every side the furious flames arose — 

The walls grew hot, quivered and shook, and fell ; 

While the fierce cries of the contending foes 
Were mingled with the buried wretch's yell ; 

And men rushed by, begrimed with smoke, to close 
Their bloodshot eyes, yet with no passing bell 

To sound their exit ; but instead the clash 

Of breaking swords — the curse — the shout — the crash ! 



THE RAID. (59 

The morrow dawned upon that battle plain 

On smould'ring ruins, blackened forms, and spears 

Half buried in the ground. The iron rain 
Had made sad havoc, and the soldiers' jeers, 

As with their booted feet they spurned the slain, 
Seemed like the laugh of devils unto ears 

Unused to such rude sounds ; but men will learn 

Aught by companionship — they had their turn. 

April 13, 1843. 



SUNSET AMONG THE ALPS. 

Hunter, that all day long hath chased the deer 

And the wild chamois by the mountain's crest, 
When tired and faint dost ever linger here 

To view the sunset fading in the west? 

See, the proud eagle seeks his lofty nest. 
But half-way up suspends the giddy flight, 

And, poising on his wing in airy rest. 
Strains his plumed neck to view the glorious sight, 
Then with a scream of wonder and delight 

Resumes the way to where his eyry hung 
Among the pine-trees on the beetling height. 

Is by the zephyr fanned and by the tempest swung. 

See what a gorgeous stream of burning gold 
Bathes yonder valley and the babbling brook 

That dances o'er its rocky bed ! Behold ! 
How every cloud grows redder as you look, 
And each wild flower in its secret nook 
70 



SUNSET AMONG THE ALPS. 71 

Bends its fair head, as though it were to ask 
The monarch's benison ere he forsook 

The throne of day and bade Earth wear the mask 

Of starless Night or in the moonlight bask, 
While the rude peasant boy, devoid of care, 

Whistling as he comes plodding from his task. 

Kneels with the fading day and breathes his even- 
ing prayer. 

O Hunter, here within this rugged glen, 

Where through the long rank grass the soft winds 
play 

A dirge-like music — where the feet of men 
Have seldom trodden since that llited day 
When the high Alps re-echoed to the bray 

Of warlike trump and tramp of harnessed steed 
As he, the World's Enslaver ! went his way 

To win himself a name — perchance to bleed ! 

Ambition, speak — is this thy paltry meed ! 
Is it for this men fret their life away? 

Hunter, 1 tell thee thou art blest indeed. 

Here 'mid thy native crags and sunset glens to 
stray. 

May 25, 1843. 



GREEK WAR SONG. 

Brothers, arise ! to arms ! the trump is sounding. 

Shake off the devvdrops from your scented locks ; 
With patriot zeal be every bosom bounding ; 

Stand firm as your own rocks. 

Seize the red sabre by your fathers wielded. 

Strike, that the hireling's blood may stain the 
blade ; 
Strike, for to-day your altars must be shielded ; 

Strike for each dark-eyed maid. 

Fling out your banner to the dallying breeze; 

Shout your wild war-cry through each rugged glen ; 
Leap from your rosy couch of slavish ease, 

And show them ye are men ! 

They deem the spirit of our Spartan sires 
Hath fled forever from its native land, 

And that the embers of our faded fires 
May light no battle-brand. 

72 



GREEK WAR SONQ. 73 

But up ! forsake your rest — your brethren call you ; 

The tyrant's hordes are thronging ev'ry hill. 
A glorious death is all that can befall you ; 

Then die with those who will ! 

Better to die upon the field of honor, 

With brave men struggling for their country's 
fame, 
Than on your crimson couch — a slave's dishonor, 

Unworthy e'en the name ! 

Arise! and on with us! the trump is pealing. 

Haste ! we are sworn ere night our land to save, 
Or else, with blood our strong devotion sealing, 

To fill a soldier's grave. 

May 20, 1843. 



THE WARKIOR OF THE DESERT. 

Fleet is ray barb as the wild simoon, 

And bright my lance as the beam of day; 
We lie 'neath the palm through the sultry noon, 
And at even-tide we are far away ; 
Away o'er the desert — away o'er the hill — 
To the tents they have pitched by the shady rill. 

Well knows my charger his rider's leap, 
And snuffs the air with a regal pride. 
While his mane o'er my breast the hot winds sweep, 
And loud rings his neigh o'er the desert wide; 
And he scatters the sand with his feet unshod, 
That the foe may not know where my courser trod. 

Tell not to me of your couch of down, 
Boast not of wealth upon the billow, 
Nor of your old halls in bower or town. 

My steed is my home, my wealth, my pillow. 
In the saddle by day, on his neck at night, 
With my lance I'll defend him, or wrong or right. 

June 13, 1843. 
74 



THE BOY AND THE BUTTERFLY. 

I SAW a fair-haired boy, one summer morn, 

Chasing a butterfly with eager feet. 
Among the roses, by the hedge of thorn. 

Nor cared he for the dangers he would meet. 
Over the brook he went, upon the worn 

And mossy stones o'er which the waters beat; 
And he looked back when the rude ford was passed, 
And held his sides and laughed, then bounded off as 
fast. 

Up the rough hill he tripped, his flaxen hair 
Dancing around his neck ; at length, he fell — 

The butterfly went floating high in air, 
Then hid itself within a cowslip's bell. 

The boy observed its soft retreat from where 
He lay extended — scarcely could he quell 

75 



76 THE BOY AND THE BUTTERFLY. 

The tear that rose and glistened in his eye ; 

At last, he laughed aloud — but yet 'twas half a cry. 

Away he ran the insect to o'ertake, 
And found it hidden in its leafy lair; 

Another fall he had, which well might make 
A stouter heart than his yield in despair. 

Still he would not the flying thing forsake, 
But for a warmer chase 'gan to prepare. 

And o'er the hills and vales went following after. 

With panting breath, and shout, and merry ringing 
laughter. 

It stopped again, to take a sip of dew, 
And quite concealed itself within a rose; 

The urchin saw his chance and forward flew, 

And soon his hands both flower and moth enclose. 

Pleased with his skill, then" forth his prey he drew, 
But where were all its many-colored bows? 

The pleasure did not equal half the cost. 

And all his pain was vain, and all his labor lost. 

So we, in life, chase many a 'fleeting thing, 

Whose charms are fled the moment it is won; 

Dash oif the stains from the moth's gaudy wing, 
And 'tis a flying worm you look upon ! 



THE BOY AND THE BUTTERFLY. 77 

Beauty is but the briglit imagining 

Of the rich fancy of some gifted son; 
To him the night is light — and all is fair — 
The daisy decks the tomb, and hence must joy be 
there ! 

May 19, 1843. 



THE LADY OF THE VEIL. 

Oh, her eye is like a southern star ! 

And her cheek, as though a southern wind 
Had brought of rose tints from afar 

The richest it coukl find — 
And kissed her clieeks, and bade them glow. 
Types of her loveliness, I trow. 

The raven of an Alpine cloud 

Is in her long and flowing hair — 
The whiteness of an Alpine shroud 

On the fair brow that glimmers there. 
'T would set your soul on fire to see 

The dream-like beauty of her form ; 
And cold as death the heart must be 

Such peerless grace would fail to warm. 

But he whose heart is framed for love, 
Would gaze on her and think • of lands 

78 



THE LADY OF THE VEIL. 79 

Whose milder starlight gleams above — 
The sea-washed isles where Venice stands ; 

And of soft hands linked in the dance, 
And burning vows from lips that broke — 

For love was in her blue eye's glance, 
And breathed in every word she spoke. 

Oh, she is too fair for this cold clime ! 

The gentle South should have seen her birth, 
Where Pleasure doth chase old laggard Time 

Away with song and mirth — 
The fairy of an Eastern tale 
Is the bright Lady of the Veil. 

May 14, 1843. 



HOURS OF MELANCHOLY. 

Oh, there are hours when Melancholy twines 

Her strong arms round the heart, like pois'nous vines 

That cling the oak ! — the while, her cold lips prest 
Upon the burning cheek and fevered brow, 

Her icy hand is laid upon the breast, 
And chills the blood with which its channels flow; 
And there are times when the full tide of woe 

Comes sweeping o'er the senses, till we crave 
Death as a boon and hail eternity ! 

For not to be is not to be a slave. 
And not to be a slave is to be free ! 

Better to lie with charnel worms entombed 
Than be the mark for envy's fatal aim ! 

Better to revel with the doubly-doomed 
Than live for foes to taunt and load with shame ! 

O Solitude and Melancholy, ye 
Are precious gifts, for from you we may learn 

To dare the tempest of adversity. 
Nor heed the fires of hate that round us burn ; 
80 



HOURS OF MELANCHOLY. gl 

But pressing forward through the gath'ring gloom 
Of this, Earth's wilderness, with patience wait 
The hour that bids us step into the tomb 
And meet our fate. 

May 29, 1843. 



THE LOST LADIE. 

A LADIE of the north countrie 

Rode o'er the moor on palfrey white; 

She was a lovely clarae to see, 
With plume and pearl bedight. 

Beside her rode a Baron bold, 
Behind her came a yeoman tall ; 

Of the bold knight strange tales are told 
I would not here recall — 

Strange tales of sights that men have seen, 
Of fearful sounds that men have heard; 

'Twas but a heated brain, I ween. 
And scream of midnight bird. 

For sure so stout a knight as he 

Could with a lance defend his fame, 

And from the breath of calumny 
Protect his ancient name. 

82 



THE LOST LADIE. 33 

Doth he uot boast an iron arm ? 

And hath he not a sturdy glave? 
Marry, the wight would meet with harm 

Who should the Baron brave. 

But still beside the blazing turf, 

And in the hostel o'er the ale. 
Those tales were told by clown and serf 

With quivering lip and pale. 

Anon the boor would stop and stare 

Across his shoulder at the door, 
Lest the dread Baron should be there 

With all the wizard Four. 

For one his castle passed at night, 
And said that on the turrets gray 

Four sisters danced i' the moonlight 
Kound where Sir Hugo lay. 

And that the Baron rose and drew 
His falchion famed in many a raid, 

And three times in the air it threw. 
And three times kissed the blade. 



84 THE LOST LA DIE. 

And this 'twas whispered was the spell — 
That three times he should kiss the steel, 

When all in Eildon's caves that dwell 
Would clatter at his heel. 

It was a fearful gift, I trow. 

An' they who told it have not lied. 

I wot the ladie did not know 
A fiend was by her side ! 

They reached a chapel as they rode ; 

"Seek shelter here, Sir Hugh, I pray," 
The ladie said, but on he yode, 

"Why ride so fast, Earl Ray?" 

The Baron knit his eyebrows black 
And told the dame it was his will ; 

St. Dunstan shield her ! Good alack ! 
I fear he'll do her ill. 

The ladie trembled so she dropped 
Her crucifix and clung the mane ; 

Her hand it shook, the palfrey stopped : 
He thought she pulled the rein. 



THE LOST LAD IE. 85 

Sir Hugo swore an oath, then drew 
His sword and 'gau the steed to beat; 

The jennet plunged and welhiigh threw 
The ladie from her seat. 

But she from infancy had learned 

To check the curvet at her need, 
And now the yeoman's aid she spurned, 

Who sought to still her steed. 

Eftsoons she soothed the palfrey's fright, 
Then drew her wimple o'er her face. 

That she might hide from that dark knight 
Whate'er her thoughts should trace. 

She kissed tlie cross the faithful boor 
Had gently placed within her hand, 

And they have passed the Bowden Moor 
And stand on fairy land. 

Swift up the Eildon hills they mount. 

And now they've reached the Luckenhare ; 

The Baron bade the dame dismount 
And leave her palfrey there. 



86 THE LOST LADIE. 

" Why, good Sir Hugh," the ladle cried, 
" Certes, my lord, we've gone astray ; 

The castle lies the other side, 
Northward three leagues away." 

" Get down ! Get down !" the Baron screamed, 
Then swore the road right well he wist. 

Saw she aright or has she dreamed ? 
Three times the sword he kissed ! 

Out from a cavern in the hill 

A graybeard came in quaint attire; 

Shrunken he was — his voice was shrill, 
His dark eyes gleamed with fire. 

He knelt before the scowling knight; 

He seized the wizard Baron's rein ; 
He helped him from his steed alight. 

And welcomed him amain. 

" Welcome ! thrice welcome, noble lord ! 

For few there be of woman born 
Who have, like you, unsheathed the sword 

Before they blew the horn."* 

* Vide The Shepherd's Tale— Scott. 



THE LOST LADIE. gy 

The Baron gave a fiendish leer ; 

His frown was terrible to view; 
The ladie grasped the croup in fear — 

The yeoman trembled too. 

Then loud he blew a single note — 
Such notes are blown in fairy land; 

A dwarf leapt out fast as he mote 
And waited his command. 

"Take yonder churl — the horses three — 
And lead them far across the wold ; 

I wis he would not able be 
To find us were he told." 

They've gone — so has that ladie fair ; 

The gray beard warlock and Sir Hugh 
Entered the cavern bleak and bare, 

Concealed from curious view. 

Never again that dame was seen, 
And never came the Baron back; 

The yeoman guessed the truth, I ween. 
But could not find the track. 

July 25, 1843. 



TO CHARLES WEST THOMSON, 

ACCOMPANYING SEVEKAL CLUSTEKS OF GRAPES. 

Say ! which is the fairest for maiden's eye, 
The black of the raven or blue of the sky? 
And which is most meet for ray lady-love's hair, 
The hue that the Saxons or Georgians wear? 

Are the girls of the East, or the maids of the West, 

In beauty the brightest, in virtue the best? 

Are the knights of the South, who to battle ride 

forth. 
More valiant in fight than the knights of the North? 

But tell me again, is the vintage of France, 
That land of the goblet, the song, and the dance, 
Half as sweet to your lip as the red wine of Spain, 
That caught from the sunset its loveliest stain ? 



TO CHARLES WEST THOMSON. 89 

Yet think you by Ebro, or Tagus, or Rhine, 
There lie in the basket, or hang on the vine. 
Such clusters as these, if not too closely scanned? 
The purple round grapes of your own native land. 

September,' 1843. 



L'AEIELLE. 

L'arielle, I'arielle lightly 
Bounding along so sprightly, 
Like sylph of air, 
Now here, now there, 
And us poor devils nightly 
Crazing, 
Amazing, 
Tell us where 
We can prepare 
A couch befitting one so fair. 

Not where the moonlight reposes, 
And on a bed of roses ; 
The wanton plays 
By her fond rays 
Thy couch too much discloses, 
Exciting, 
Inviting 
Stars to gaze 
And whisper praise. 
90 



L'ARIELLE. 91 



Nor yet in the depths of ocean ; 
The sea-weeds' gentle motion 
Too rough would be 
For one like thee, 
Without some slumb'rous potion 
To steep 
In sleep 
Thy airy 
Sense. My fairy, 
Rest thou, then, in my memory. 



May, 1844. 



A FRAGMENT. ■ 

Now gather one and gather all 

A festive throng in a Baron's hall; 

The wassail candle is burning bright, 

Be merry o'er your wine to-night. 

Such goodly cheer was ne'er beheld 

Save in the glorious days of eld. 

The wind without is blowing cold, 

The fire withiu is blazing bold, 

And pictured dames and warriors tall 

Are smiling on you from the wall, 

As though they willingly would be 

Partakers in the revelry. 

But well, I ween, they had their day, 

And sang their song and played their play, 

Or linked their fingers in the dance; 

Now have they started from their trance, 

And seem to wish they could with you 

Again the song and mirth renew. 

Fill up the cup, the guests are come; 

Let joy be merry — sorrow dumb. 

May 10, 1843. 
92 



A FRAGMENT. 93 

Pass round the jest, be merry all, 
To-night the wine-cup, next the pall. 
We cannot live forever, then 
Quaff oif the wine and fill again. 
Fast flowed the Rhenish and the mead, 
Rhenish enough to crimson Tweed, 
And quick the jest went round in glee, 
And sped the hours right merrily. 
The wind without blew colder still 
And roared and whistled round the hill, 
The fire within threw brighter gleams 
Upon the guests and vintage streams. 
When at the gate a knock was heard. 
Hushed was the song, the jest deferred, 
The goblet raised toward the lip 
Not even honored with a sip. 
But placed again upon the board. 
The hand that held it grasped the sword. 
For those were dangerous times, I trow. 
When one knew neither friend nor foe. 
He who partook your lordly fare 
Might fire your castle, slay your heir. 
Proffer one hand in friendly clasp, 
A dagger with the other grasp. 
September 15, morning. 



94 A FE AG ME NT. 

Quick glances flew from eye to eye — 
Perchance the Highland clans were nigh, 
With dancing plumes and kirtled plaids, 
And ringing slogan, bloody blades. 
Or Border chiefs in bold foray 
Had led their followers that way, 
To plunder from the English fields 
Whate'er the down of cattle yields. 
Then drive their booty off with speed. 
Nor spare the spur, nor spare the steed, 
That they may be at dawn of day 
Over the border, far away. 
Small need was there for fear or fight, 
Nor chief nor clansman met their sight, 
For when was raised the portal stout, 
A wandering harper stood without, 
And begged for friendship's sake that he 
Might share their liospitality. 
" For I am faint and cold," he said, 
"And know not where to lay my head." 
September 16, morning. 



In those old times it needed not 
A doleful tale to move the heart. 



A FRAGMENT. 95 

Neither from castle nor from cot 
Was the poor wanderer bid depart, 
But welcomed in, as though by birth 
Peer to the noblest of the earth. 
Few moments did the minstrel wait 
For answer at the castle gate, 
When came the vassal back with word 
His master's pleasure he had heard, 
Who bade him in the minstrel bring, 
And give him hearty welcoming. 
The harper entered, and the gate 
Behind him fell with ponderous weight; 
Then followed fast his menial guide, 
Who led the way with hasty stride 
Toward the hall, from which, when nigh, 
They heard the laughter loud and high. 
September 17, afternoon. 



List, gentles all, to the song I sing, 

A song of the olden time; 

It hath pleased knight and pleased king. 

Though rude the measure and rude the rhyme. 

'Tis of a lady of high degree 

And a valiant knight of the north countrie. 



96 A FRAGMENT. 

Long hath my harp neglected lain, 
And much I aiarvel if my skill 
Will e'en suffice to wake again 
The echo of ray former strain, 
That rang o'er glen and hall ; 
For, gentles, I have sorrow seen. 
I had a little laughing boy. 
Whose hair was auburn, blue his e'eu ; 
Graceful he was and coy. 
September 13, morning. 

Oft when I neared ray quiet horae, 
That blessed child would smiling come 
And grasp my hand, while his bright eye 
Grew brighter still in ecstasy. 
Then o'er my harp his fingers run. 
Oh! I was proud to call him son! 
And hoped that he one day would be 
A follower of minstrelsy. 
And tune for lords and ladies gay 
His father's harp and sing his lay. 
But one fair morn I raised his head, 
And found my darling boy was dead I 
Ah ! need I tell a father's grief. 
How in my harp I sought relief. 



A FRAGMENT. 97 

Then flung it carelessly away. 

I could not sing ! I could not play ! 

And thus for three long years it lay, 

Till yestermorn I sang once more 

The song that I had loved before ; 

But ever and anew my grief 

In broken sobs would find relief, 

Which, mingling with my lofty strain. 

Seemed half of pleasure, half of pain. 

But why should I oppress your ear 

With tales you may not love to hear? 

Within my bosom I will try 

To hide the woe and check the sigh, 

Then, lords, list awhile 

A tedious hour to beguile. 

September 14, morning. 



LINES WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM 

TO A PICTUKE OF "THE HAELEQUIN." 

The world's a stage, the poets say, 
And all are players, or have been; 

A blithesome part has he to play. 
The merry-making harlequin. 

Some sigh and weep, some laugh and sing. 
But all must leave the scene at last. 

For death will crack the fiddle-string 
And stop the noisy trumpet's blast. 

Since we must meet one common fate. 
Let us, ere Time's dark curtain fall. 

Give Care the slip — with heart elate 

Dance on through life. A hall ! A hall ! 

August, 1844. 



98 



THE ALPINE TRAVELLER. 

'Tis a dreary night, stranger, 

Swift the snow-flake fleeteth by; 
Numb with cold the mountain ranger 
Seeks his home, secure from danger. 
Guided by the taper light 
Gleaming through the misty night, 
Like a streak upon the sky. 
From his cottage perched on high. 

Wanderer, whither art thou tending? 
List the sounds in yonder glen, 
Like the shrieks of buried men, 
Breathing still within the tomb. 
Smothered with the clay and gloom. 
There the insane winds descending, 
Half the night in revels spending. 
Scream out in their glee, 
Mad as madmen e'er could be. 

99 



100 ^^^ ALPINE TRAVELLER. 

Draw thy mantle close about thee, 
For, perchance, the fiends will flout thee, 
Lay their cold hands on thy cheek. 
Press thou forward — do not speak. 
For amid these Alpine peaks 
Death waits for him who speaks. 

Winter fled, and in his stead 

Came the hot-browed sun of Summer ; 
To the plain, like running rain, 

Sped the snow before the comer. 
In the narrow glen they found him 
With his mantle wrapt around him, 
That poor wand'ring, foolish stranger, 
Stout of heart and daring danger. 

December 28, 1844. 



SONG. 

I CANNOT join the festive throng, 

My soul is far too sad to-night; 
I could not bear to hear the song 

Breaking from lips with beauty bright. 
Soft eyes may glance their looks of love, 

Gay hearts may beat on many a breast, 
Light feet may to the music move, 

But I am weary — let me rest. 

Not worn with tire or vigil kept 

Beside the couch or coffined clay, 
Nor weary that I have not slept, 

Though three long nights are passed away 
Since on my eyelids, like the spell 

Of Love's young finger gently prest. 
The poppy leaves of slumber fell, 

Yet, weary — weary — let me rest. 

101 



102 SONG. 

There is a burden on my heart, 

There is a throbbing at my brow, 
There is a pain will ne'er depart, 

The memory of a broken vow 
Nor song, nor dance, nor mirth can cheer. 

Rest, rest is all the boon I crave — 
A narrow bed, a narrow bier. 

The last, long slumber of the grave. 

September 20, 1844. 



A REVERY. 

On a sultry afternoon 

In the sultry month of June, 

Feeling somewhat out of tune 

And ajar, 
Seated by the window-pane, 
Wond'ring if the pleasant rain 
Would ever come again, 

My cigar 
Burnt steadily and slow, 
By degrees got very low. 
And at length began to show 

Signs of dying, 
When my chin upon my breast 
Settled gradually to rest. 
And a nightmare on my chest 
Was lying. 

Horrid visions through my mind 
Hurried like a frightened hind, 



103 



104 A REVERT. 

Or the chill December wind 

O'er the snows, 
While behind them in a group, 
With a clatter and a swoop, 
Like Banquo's ghostly troop, 
Others rose. 

Beasts with heads 
Like feather-beds. 

Beasts without. 
Houses small, 
Houses tall, 

None about. 
Here a bee 
Out at sea 

In a basket; 
There a flea 
Under key 

In a casket. 
Here a snake 
Wide awake 

At a meeting; 
There a priest 
At a feast 

Drinking, eating.' 



A REVERY. 105 

Churches burning, 
Wintlraills turning, 
Children learning 

Naught at school. 
Each thing seeming, 
To my teeming, 
Mental dreaming, 

Out of rule. 
Shapes fantastic, 
Figures plastic, 
Gum-elastic. 

Men and boys 
On their heads and on their heels, 
Twisted up like strings of eels. 
Screeching like a thousand de'ils, 

Such a noise ! 
Women true, 
No one blue, 
Something new 

Beneath the sun. 
A single day. 
When folks that pray 
Mean what they say, 

"Thy will be done." 



106 ^ RE VERY 



Politiciaus out of place 
Deeming it a deep disgrace 
To be wearing any face 

But their own. 
Men in office unconcerned 
What candidate's returned, 
Or whether they are spurned 

From the throne. 



Judges just, 
Maiden's trust 

Not deceived. 
Traveller's tales, 
Hamlet's whales, 

Disbelieved. 

Kings and cobblers strung together 
Like onions on a tether. 
Bleaching out in every weather. 

Sun or rain. 
In fine, all shapes of evil, 
Machiavelli and the devil. 
Keeping up a precious revel 

In my brain. 



A REVERT. 107 

Till a most unpleasant burning, 
All my visions overturning, 

Made me jump. 
And I found to my surprise, 
Upon opening my eyes, 

But a stump. 



December 6, 1848. 



TO MARY. 

They say young hearts on summer eves 

Will sit beneath the quiet moon, 
And, turning Memory's faded leaves. 

Ponder some old forgotten tune, 
Some lay of love that long ago 

Had cheered their youth's congenial hour; 
Yet, ah ! not half the bliss they know 

Of Thought with thee and me, Mary. 

Then turning from the solemn Past, 
They leave its dim and doubtful way. 

And in the rosebeams round them cast 
See visions of a coming day, 

Gay peaks that in the early glow 

Look like the fabled mount of flowers; 

Yet, ah ! not half the bliss they know 

Of Hope with thee and me, Mary. 

108 



TO MARY. 109 

Or by some still and placid stream, 

When the calm eyes of Heaven unclose, 
And, wakened from his early dream, 

Warbles the bulbul to the rose, 
They wander silently and slow. 

Their mutual griefs to each confidiug; 
Yet, ah ! not half the bliss they know 

Of Trust with thee and me, Mary. 

Whatever bids the red lips speak; 

Whatever makes the heart-strings quiver, 
Or sends the life-blood to the cheek 

Like the quick current of a river; 
Whatever joys on earth abound, 

Remembrance, Hope, or Trusting Faith, 
Are all in richest measure found 

In Love by thee and me, Mary. 

June, 1848. 



LINES TO A ROYAL MUMMY. 

Dead relic of the Past! 

That from the chambers vast 
Of ponderous pyramid or rock-hewn tomb, 

With cerements round thee rolled, 

And visage pinched and cold. 
Came forth to upper light out of the nether gloom. 

Why, with thy parchment face 

And ugly grim grimace, 
And leathern eyeballs in a constant stare, 

Propped up against the wall 

Like pear-tree in the fall, 
Dost thou upon us cast thy gruesome glare? 

Who broke thy long repose 

And led thee by the nose. 
Willing or not, into the glare of day? 

Not his adventurous hand . 

Had ventured to withstand 
Thy royal will when thou wert wrapt in living clay, 
no 



LINES TO A ROYAL MUMMY. \\l 

Belzoni and his crew, 

With little else to do 
Than ransack graves and rummage 'mid the dead, 

Was his the daring soul 

That feared not to unroll 
The napkin that for years had bound thy withered 
head ? 

Thy greatness and thy race 

Were written on thy face; 
The blood of Princes coursed along thy veins. 

If thou canst see, behold ! 

The dynasties of old. 
Empires and thrones, like baubles flung aside. 

And men regenerate, free. 

In proud equality. 
Trampling the giant Wrong, that perished in its 
pride ! 

Thou hadst thy day, my friend, 

And still doth evil tend 
Toward good, and good to better yet doth run. 

Where settles first the night 

Thence comes the earliest light ; , 

Shall not thy native East yet glow beneath the sun? 



112 LINES TO A ROYAL MUMMY. 

Lo ! in thy palm a grain 

For centuries hath lain. 
And thus do I commit it to the earth ; 

As it shall safely root 

And forth its branches shoot, 
So from dead kings and queens shall Liberty have 
birth. 

Belzoni take my thanks, 

Thou with thy curious pranks 
Exhumed dead lips to teach a living truth, 

Which, if we rightly learn, 

Ere long there shall return 
To the world's crippled limbs the vigor of their 
youth. 

December 13, 1848. 



LINES 

WRITTEN IN A COPY OF THE "AMERICAN 
GALLERY OF ART." 

(presented to a lady.) 

Lady, no tawdry gift to thee I bring 

Of polished cameo or jewelled ring; 

No pretty annual bound in green and gold, 

With fourteen plates at ten and fourpence sold, 

That, having run for years the market through. 

Appear once more hot-pressed and pass for new; 

Nor card-case, scent-box, reticule, or fan — 

These dazzle children, but displease the man. 

Upon these simple pages you will find 

The passing foot-prints of the master-mind; 

All lovely forms and images of art. 

Which while they charm the eye refine the heart, 

And teach a lesson not in vain to know — 

How much of Beauty lingers yet below, 

8 113 



114 LINES. 

What numerous blessings crowd our earthly lot, 
Though we, poor moles ! dig on and heed them not, 
While unto us a feeble glimpse is given 
Of the transcendent light and loveliness of Heaven. 

December 19, 1848. 



THE LUCKLESS LOVER TO HIS 
LADIE. 

Dear girl, in what have I offended 

That you thus coldly look upon me? 
Name but the fault, it shall be mended, 

And you shall have no cause to shun me. 
Do I too plainly speak my mind? 

Have I my love too warmly told ? 
Alas ! I see, Love is 7iot blind — 

My suit is getting worn and old. 

I know my coat is somewhat thin : 

I feel it of a wintry day; 
For though it buttons to the chin. 

It does not keep the cold away : 
My blood will freeze, my flesh will creep. 

While every separate molar rattles. 
But then you could your promise keep. 

And wed a man and not his chattels. 

115 



116 THE LUCKLESS LOVER. 

What if my stock is frayed and worn, 

Most stocks are in a ragged way ; 
I shall be only more forlorn 

If you discount my hopes to-day. 
My hands are guiltless of a glove, 

I'd know it by your angry brow, 
But I beseech you, dearest love ! 

Pray don't give me the mitten now ! 

My hat is gray, but not with years, 

Nor grew it white in a single night; 
I purchased it with many fears, 

And hoped that all would yet be right. 
I felt its smooth and silken crown, 

And asked the price — it haunts me still- 
I never for a nap lie down 

Without a nightmare of the bill. 

My tailor threatens every day 
To bring my credit to a close; 

My seamstress swears I never pay. 

And da7ms my eyes and not my hose; 

My bootblack stands here at my side, 
And shows his polish and his pride. 

December 20, 1848. 



"I LOYED THEE IN THY SPRING- 
TIME'S BLUSHING HOUR." 

'Tis winter now, dear love ; can you forget 

The vows we plighted in our earlier day, 
When not a cloud obscured our Heaven as yet, 

And April flowers were thick about our way ? 
The birds were singing in the leafy hedge. 

The stream made music by the slanting hill, 
And down amid the cool and splashy sedge 

The ripples came and went at their sweet will. 
Blest time ! when no rude sounds the silence broke, 
But all things to our hearts in kindliest accents spoke. 

How changed the scene since then ! You best can say 
To whom that change hath such misfortune wrought. 

The flowers are dead, the birds have flown away. 
The heavens are with impending fury fraught ; 

Across Life's desolate heath the night wind sweeps, 
Sighing and wailing like a broken heart, 

117 



118 "/ LOVED THEE." 

While memory o'er our shattered fortune weeps, 

Mourning the joys we thought would ne'er depart, 
And we, like children, closer cling together 
When fiercest raves the storm or beats the wintry 
weather. 

March 14. 1849. 



"FEAR NOT; IT IS I." 

When in the tempest of that Eastern night 
The fragile bark that bore the chosen few 
Trembled in every plank, when they who slept 
Awoke with cries of terror on their lips, 
And such a sinking of the heart as comes 
In the dark hour of final agony, 
Behold ! a luminous presence walked the deep, 
And a calm voice above the roar of waves, 
Distinct and audible as silver bells. 
Said, "Fear not; it is I." 

So, when the waves of sorrow compass thee. 
And trouble like a tempest bows thee down. 
When overhead is darkness, and around 
The "pitiless peltings" of adversity. 
Faint not, but listen to the still, small voice 
That ever, through the varied ills of life, 
Speaking with cheering accents to the heart, 
Says, " Fear not ; it is I." 

August 23, 1849. 

119 



CHRISTMAS HYMN. 

Adapted to Rossini's Chorus, " Night's Shades no Longer" 
(" Moses in Egypt"). 

Hark ! the glad tidings, angels are singing — 

" Lo ! in a manger, Jesus is born !" 
Prophets and sages incense are bringing — 

Join the loud chorus, stars of the morn! 
Shepherds of Judah, tenderly keeping 

Watch by the hill-side, echo the song ! 
Daughters of Zion, cease from your weeping — 

Hail the Redeemer! promised so long. 

Robed not in purple, all unattended. 

Comes the Messiah, Israel's King — 
Born of a Virgin, Christ is descended, 

Clothed with our nature, pardon to bring. 
Break into shouting! sons of the stranger. 

Lift up your voices ! valley and hill. 
Greet your deliv'rer — kneel at the manger — 

Welcome the message, " Peace and Good Will.'^ 
120 



CHRISTMAS HYMN. 121 

Chorus to last verse. 

Greet vour deliv'rer — kneel at the manner — • 
Welcome the message — " Peace and Good Will," 
"Peace and Good Will"— "Peace and Good Will," 
Welcome the message — "Peace and Good Will," 
"Good Will"— "Good Will"— "Good Will" 

December 6, 1854. 



THE FOLLOWING IS A LIST OF THE SUBSCRIBERS AT WHOSE 
REQUEST THIS MEMORIAL VOLUME IS PRINTED. 



Archer, Pierce. 

Ashman, Hon. Wm. N. 

BiDDLE, Hon. Craig. 

BisPHAM, George Tucker. 

Brown, A. Eldridge. 

Brown, Mrs. Matilda. 

Brown, Wm. H. 

Bullitt, John C. 
Carson, Hampton L. 
Cassiby, Lewis C. 
Collins, John M. 
Davis, Sussex D. 
Dechert, Robert P. 
Dickson, Samuel. 
Douglass, A. P. 
Fell, Hon. D. Newun. 
Flanders, Henry. 
Garsed, Henry E. 
Gest, John B. 
Hagert, Edwin. 
Hannis, Wm. C. 
Hirst, Anthony A. 
JuNKiN, George. 
Lagen, Charles A. 
Manley, George. 
McCaffrey, John J. 
Miller, Charles F. 



Mitchell, E. Coffee. 

Nowell, Capt. Samuel. 

Page, S. Davis. 

Parrish, Joseph. 

Penrose, Hon. Clement B. 

Pile, Joseph M. 

Price, J. Sergeant. 

Read, John R. 

Read, Wm. F. 

Rosengarten, Joseph G. 

Sanders, Dallas. 

ScHELL, Joseph B, 

Sellers, David W. 
SouDER, Charles. 
Souder, Frederick H. 
Sharkey, John F. 
Sheppard, Furman. 
Tack, Augustus H. 
Talmage, E. L. 
Thomas, John M. 
TowNSEND, Joseph B. 
Wallace, J. M. Power. 
Warwick, Charles F. 
AVestcott, Thompson. 
Wheeler, John H. 
AVhite, Richard P. 
Winship, Richard C. 

123 



JT 






















